


The best kind of mess

by orphan_account



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Breeding, Dirty Talk, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Pregnancy Kink, Reader-Insert, Sam's POV, Shameless Smut, Vaginal Sex, this is totally not self-indulgent /j
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-26
Updated: 2021-02-26
Packaged: 2021-03-17 02:00:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29709906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: “Yeah,” he says, words saturated with wide-eyed sincerity, a dazed grin tugging at his lips. “Yeah, I do.”“Then… it’s settled,” you say. “Operation Make-a-Baby is a go?”He pecks you on the mouth, suddenly giddy. “You betcha.”
Relationships: Sam Wilson (Marvel)/Reader
Kudos: 33





	The best kind of mess

You pounce the instant he steps through the door.

No words. No greeting. No smile. No cordial _hi honey how was your day_. He’s barely even opened his mouth before he finds himself greeted by Your hands and Your arms and Your lips and then _all_ of You, all five feet and four inches of you slamming him up against the wall with a surprising amount of force and seizing his mouth with yours. It’s all fast and hot and ravenously hungry, a predator and your unsuspecting prey who really, if he’s being honest, is more than happy to be your prey, to be eaten alive, devoured whole. Your movements are calculated in their haste; it’s clear you’ve been waiting for him, waiting for the right moment to strike.

And – well, Sam’s not complaining. Mostly, he’s just confused as hell.

“Well,” he manages to sputter, prying your off him only long enough to breathe out, “hello to you too, _dear_.”

You glower, and it’s more adorable than it is menacing, really, the way your brows pull together, the way your eyes darken in the ominous way storm clouds roll over the sun. You’re clad in a pencil skirt and teal waterfall blouse from work, hair messy, makeup faded from the long day, but you don’t look tired. If anything, your alertness is almost threatening, how awake and honed-in on him you seems, razor-sharp and resolute and intent on getting what you want – which, Sam thinks, you’ve made pretty goddamn clear.

Sometimes you get like this, horny for no reason, jumping his bones at the drop of a hat. It’s the opposite of a problem, really, but a good boyfriend would at least try to discern the cause of it before handing over his dick to you without question, and so Sam resolves to do just that.

“What took you so long?” you grumble, and before he knows it your hands are yanking at his suit jacket, peeling it off, lithe fingers unbuttoning his waist and parting it down the middle, before giving a growl of frustration when you finds yourself thwarted by the undershirt beneath. “God, why the hell do you wear so many layers?”

Sam lets you shuck his jacket, not quite sure what to make of you, of your quick, methodic movements as you strip him, your seriousness about it all, like there’s a countdown timer to the apocalypse ticking away and you need to fuck him before it hits zero.

“One – Bucky’s been kicking my ass in training. And two-” Something snaps – probably one of his buttons – and hits the floor. If he weren’t so preoccupied with the feeling of your hands roaming his body, he might grumble about having to sew that back on, but he thinks he’d be a fucking fool right now to complain about anything. So he relaxes, instead, giving you one of his wry grins that he knows will send your fury sailing to new heights. “Well, guess I had to slow you down somehow, didn’t I?”

“Why,” you breathe hot into his ear, “can’t you just be like everyone other superhero and wear _normal_ suits?”

“Gimme a heads-up next time you want me naked stat,” he teases, as you shimmer your way out of your skirt and he works at his belt. “I’ll be ready to drop my pants the second I walk in the door. Dick on demand.”

That finally gets a laugh out of you, just as your skirt goes tumbling to the floor, crumpling around your ankles before you step out of it, kicking it away and walking back over to him in just your panties and blouse, flushed from head to toe, hair threatening to tumble out of its messy bun. You pull it out with one hasty tug, giving your head a shake and letting your hair fall around your shoulders, the first few buttons on your blouse undone and threatening to let your breasts spill out of it – and fuck, it’s times like these he just has to take a step back, press pause, and contemplate how completely, ridiculously, stupidly _lucky_ he is.

You aren’t about to let him press pause right now, though, and so he catches you before you can move in again, determined to slow you down somehow, tap the brakes, because after four years of dating you’re beyond this, beyond fucking out their feelings and using only your bodies to communicate.

“Hey,” he rasps, catching you before you can move in again, voice low. He reaches up, tucking a few wayward strands of hair behind your ear. “Slow down for a sec. You okay?”

Something flickers in your eyes, those blue waters which churn like rapids with need now, but it’s there and gone in seconds, and finally you soften, your shoulders drooping, all that impatience flooding out of you. You let out a breath, and he places a hand on your hip, fingering absentmindedly at the lace trimming on your panties, breathing you in, letting _you_ breathe him in. Sometimes you’re a bit like a rocketship hurtling out of the atmosphere, wild and untamed and travelling faster than the speed of light, and he helps bring your back into earth’s gravity, reminds you how to be still.

“I’m good,” you say, and offer him the first genuine smile he’s seen from you, exposing the pearls of your teeth. “I, uh… I’m just really glad you’re home.”

_Home_. He never gets tired of hearing you say that, hearing your call your apartment home, knowing you think of this life you’ve managed to build together as your _home_ , when he knows you’ve been starved of a real home most of your life. You both came out on the other side of that, by some miracle. You both managed to get back to some semblance of normal. Managed to find a home – and it isn’t these four walls you’re referring to, he knows that. These four walls mean nothing, ultimately. This place could burn to the ground around them tomorrow and Sam wouldn’t so much as shed a tear, because _you’re_ his home, his hearth, his four walls and his warm bed at night, and anywhere you are… That’s his home.

He can’t remember when he got so goddamn sentimental. Probably started the day he fell in love with you.

Sam grins, pressing his lips onto yours softly, barely a whisper of a kiss. “Me too. Now…” He gives a sweep of his arms, gesturing to the few garments still cloaking his body. “Feel free to continue.”

You laughs, full-chested and free, when he reaches out, tangling you in his arms and reversing their positions, pressing your against the wall instead. “I hate you.”

“Yeah, well. I love you,” he replies, easily, the words falling from his lips by habit, and you lights up when he does, gleaming so bright it’s almost hard to look at you.

Your kisses are hot, heavy. They have a tang of desperation in them; he doesn’t know how long you’ve been waiting, but judging by the wet spot he can feel forming in your panties, the sweat that beaded on your brow long before he stepped inside the door, he figures it must be a while. It never feels like he sees your enough, these days, you’re your mostly normal hours at the office and his nights spent wasted at the Avengers Compound, perpetually on-call whenever Fury decides to need him.

You both gorge themselves on each other whenever they can, desperate, starved for one another’s attention. Sam had been so sure, after all these years, that eventually that fire of wanting would die down, turn to a bed of slowly-smoldering embers, but he finds that it rages like wildfire still, that it’s never stopped growing; that he still wants you with the same fierceness he did the night you met, even after all these years. That’s not to say your love is easy – because it isn’t; it takes work. It’s a choice you both make over and over, to stay together, to work at this and love each other and he’ll keep choosing you.

He can’t imagine _not_ choosing you. You’re the only option there’s ever been.

Both of you abandon the task of stripping each other; Sam figures that, upon weighing the costs and benefits, there’s really no need to. It’ll cost you both time, and there won’t be a whole hell of a lot of benefits, because you can manage sex with clothes. So he reaches into his pocket, never moving his mouth away from yours, and tugs out his wallet, fumbling with it before his fingers locate a small foil packet. By then you’re already tugging down his zipper, freeing his cock and wrapping your fingers around it, giving him a firm pump, and suddenly he can’t remember what it feels like _not_ to be hard.

He rips the packet open. And that’s when you bat his hand away.

“No,” you breathe, shaking your head. “Want you bare.”

Immediately, he freezes; You are’t one to be reckless like this, at least not willfully. You’d learned your lesson years ago and has insisted on safety ever since, though he won’t deny you’ve forgotten condoms in their haste, at times. You’re only human. Only hot-blooded. You make mistakes. But you sure as hell don’t make mistakes like this on purpose, and so he pulls back, equal parts breathless and bewildered.

“Huh?”

“Did I stutter?” You give an insistent tug on his cock. “I want you bare.”

“Wh-”

“I went off the pill.”

Wait. _Wait._

“Hold up,” he blurts out, the flow of electricity in his body cut all at once, like flipping off a breaker in a fuse box. “What? The hell do you mean you went off the pill?”

You cock your head to one side, amused. “Do I have to spell it out for you?”

You went off the pill. You want him to fuck your without a condom. Connect the dots and you can only draw one logical conclusion, and Sam feels almost dizzy with shock, his mind struggling to plug numbers into an equation that keeps returning an error message of _does not compute_. Because this sure as fuck _does not compute_.

It’s not like the thought hasn’t crossed his mind, over the years. You’re both together and stable. But with him going on so many different missions around the globe, he never felt like it was an appropriate time to bring someone new into this world. For a moment, he just gapes. And finally, you do him the courtesy of spelling it out for him.

“I want a baby.”

“You-” He shakes his head, thrown for a loop. All he can do is parrot the words back at you lamely. “You want a baby.”

Doubt flashes in your eyes, for a second, and you fidget, suddenly unsure. “What, do you… do you not, or something?”

“Yeah, yeah. ’Course I do. You know I do.” The words come flying out of his mouth in a burst, clumsy but genuine, because he does. Of course he does, but all he can do is continue to gape at you. “I, uh… just, could we not have had this conversation before my dick was out, though?”

“That’s a…” You drift off, glancing down to acknowledge its presence the way one greets an old friend. “Yeah, that’s a good point.”

Silence. And he’s not going to lie; it’s not an overly comfortable silence. Suddenly his entire vocabulary seems to have been deleted, and all he can do is stare at you like a dumbass, and you seem equally unsure how to proceed, now that you’re sprung this on him when both of you probably should have sat down, first, and come to a mutual decision like adults. It’s not like you’re debating which place to get takeout from; this is the creation of a whole damn human. A potential baby.

_Your_ baby.

“I’m sorry,” you say, finally, taking the condom from him and turning it over in your hands, considering it. “I should’ve told you, before. I didn’t… think I knew how to say it.”

“You want this, though?” he presses, gently, moving in closer. “You’re sure?”

You nod. “I’ve thought about it a lot. I’m in a good place at work. You and me… we’re in a good place. It just feels…” A smile plays at your lips; tiny, but hopeful. “It feels right.” You give him a look, as if realizing something, out of the blue. “Do you? Want this, I mean?”

The question gives him pause, even though he does. He wants it, now, and the wanting hits him like a punch in the gut, sudden and paralyzing, but it occurs to him that he’s wanted it for a long, long time; probably long before it’d even crossed your mind. He wants a child with your, and perhaps the most striking thing is that _you_ want a child with _him_ , that you’ve decided you trust him enough for this, want to do this with him – not anyone else in the world. _Him_.

But however much he might want to, he knows there are a million reasons why he shouldn’t. Because of the things he’s done, the dangers of his job. Because he can, realistically, only mess this up in every conceivable way it _can_ be messed up. But it occurs to him that you have most likely considered all those things too and decided you want to do this with him nonetheless – because you see something good in him, something worthy. You wouldn’t want to do this if you didn’t think he could handle it, and you believe in him, and suddenly, that’s all Sam needs to believe in _himself_.

He can do this. _Both of you_. You’re in this together. You’re _stronger_ together.

“Yeah,” he says, words saturated with wide-eyed sincerity, a dazed grin tugging at his lips. “Yeah, I do.”

“Then… it’s settled,” you say. “Operation Make-a-Baby is a go?”

He pecks you on the mouth, suddenly giddy. “You betcha.”

“So,” you begin, teasingly, glancing down at his cock where it stands, at full mast, forgotten momentarily but now painfully obvious. “You gonna get on with it, or-”

He does as you say. He swallows the words with a kiss.

Because damn fucking _straight_ he’s gonna get on with it.

He smooths his hand down your stomach, dipping it into your panties, claiming his prize – and the whole world seems to stop spinning when his fingers brush your folds, because you’re wet, wetter than you should be from just kissing him; ridiculously, impossibly sopping wet, and he doesn’t have to do much investigative work to surmise you’ve been like this for hours, panties damp and cunt sloppy. Nothing else would explain the slickness coating your thighs, dripping down them, the way your panties have been soaked through and probably have been for a long, long time, the way your cunt burns like a furnace when he presses the tip of one of his fingers inside, testing the waters.

You’ve been like this for hours, sitting around, waiting up for him – for him to come and fuck your and spill inside your and knock your up, and that’s what he’s going to do, and suddenly the air between both of you shifts, grows heavier, takes on a certain weight. Suddenly that’s all he can _think_ of doing. You gasp and rise up on your toes, and the arousal hits him like a kick in the head, imagining you like that: pregnant, breasts engorged and stomach swollen, ripening, full to bursting of your child, full of _him_ , the both of you. How you’d _look_. How you’d be so completely, irrevocably, irreversibly _his_.

He doesn’t know where it comes from, that primal, biological response, that need to claim you, fuck you, make your his, but he does know that it drives him fucking insane, makes his cock positively leak, and all at once he’s ravenous, looming over your like a beast, mouth mere inches from your ear as his fingers stroke your greedy cunt.

“Well, well, well,” he purrs, licking his lips, drawing another whimper out of your mouth, “what do we have here?”

You manage a laugh. “I have to spell that out for you too?”

“Been waitin’ for me all night?” Sam continues, voice dropping into that low, raspy register that he knows makes you shiver, makes yor spill down your thighs even more, unable to dam up the flow of your desire. “Wet, achin… Just waitin’ for me to come home. Fuck you slow. Fuck you good.” He removes his hand from your panties, urging your to place your feet shoulder-width apart, keeping his hands on your thighs and preventing your from rubbing them together, until you’re squirming against him, low whimpers and whines forming in the back of your throat from the lack of friction. “Fill you up, over and over. Come inside you ‘til you can’t take any more. ‘Til you’re full of me. Full of _us_. That what you’ve been waitin’ for?”

Your breath hitches, and Sam knows he’s got you. He doesn’t usually talk like this; he teases, sure, revels in dirty talk, but his words now sound more like threats, like growled promises, nothing lighthearted about them. At first he hadn’t been sure you’d be into this, into hearing him say these things though he’s said things far more depraved, but it’s some animal inside him that’s risen up and taken control of his tongue, and you don’t seem like you’re about to file a complaint – about anything other than his lack of attention to your lower half, that is. He isn’t even really touching you at all, and you’re not one to wait around and whimper and beg very long, wait for him to make the first move. You’re a woman of action. You’ll take what you want, sooner rather than later.

Luckily what you want is what you _both_ want, tonight.

“What makes you think I’d let you?” You tease, eyes glinting. “What makes you think you’ve earned that?”

It takes him all of 0.3 seconds to scoop you up, his hands anchored under your thighs, powerful arms lifting your up like you weigh nothing at all – and you don’t, not now, but by the end of all this you will, swollen and heavy and waddling and _fuck_ , fuck he doesn’t know what it is about the thought that drives him on, the thought of being the one to do that to your, but he feels insane, possessed. He feels like a beast, again; some animal giving a show of strength to attract its mate, and he surges, kissing you roughly, savagely as he brings your to the bedroom. He dumps you down onto the bed and all but attacks your remaining clothes, doing the same to his own until you’re both nude – nothing in the way. No clothing. No condom, either. This is you, just you.

This is something far deeper than just sex, than fucking. Deeper in its purpose. It feels like entire worlds hang in the balance, tonight.

Normally he’d hang back. Drink in the sight of you. The moonlight is blue and it flows over your liquid smooth, making you glow, illuminating you, and again all he can see is that fantasy of you, pregnant and glowing and so overwhelmingly full, round belly and aching breasts and supple body, all the curves of you expanded out, filled in, and all he can think of is _making_ you that way. Transforming you and watching you change, grow with the evidence of what you’ve done, until there’s no hiding it, until everyone _knows_. It’s the only thought running through his head, as he looks at you, and after a moment you shift, breasts rising and falling quickly with each heaving breath, body laid out on display before him, sprawled against a deep blue backdrop of Starry Night.

“So?” you probe, a loopy smile on your face. There’s no apprehension, in your eyes. “Gonna come here and knock me up or what?”

And he doesn’t have to answer. You both know it’s an unequivocal _fuck yes_.

“Never answered my question,” he insists, as he sinks down onto you, settling between your legs, bending them back, and placing one of his hands over your knee. He doesn’t slide inside you, at first; instead he just glides his cock across you, teasing your folds, your clit, until you’re giving little huffing breathes he can tell are stifled moans which you’re quickly losing the control to stifle at all. “That what you’ve been waitin’ for all night? Me to come knock you up?”

Your breathing is shallow. You’re moaning freely, now, and once maybe you would’ve kept those moans stifled, kept to yourself just how much you want him, but there’s no point to that, and you’re so open, below him, legs spread, his cock just a hair away from slipping inside you. He can see your face clearly through the moonlight, your half-lidded eyes, the way your expression contorts with pleasure, your kissable, swollen lips, forced open by cry after cry, wanton and filthy. You have such a rotten little look on your face, and he doesn’t know how much longer he can stand this, stand being coated in your juices but not inside you, dripping with precome, dripping with _you._ You’re like a wet fucking paradise and he wants nothing more than to lose himself between your legs.

But he wants to hear your answer him just a tad bit more.

“Tell me,” he rasps. “Tell me you want this. ‘Cause if you do-” He lowers his lips to your breast, sucking at it, cupping the underside and envisioning it swelling beneath his fingers even now, against all sense, against all reason. “You won’t have to close your damn legs, I’ll keep you in this bed for days. I’ll have you all night, again. Again. You’re gonna fucking overflow when I’m done. And when you walk around with me, down the street, and everyone sees you… Huge. Mine. They’ll all _know_ you’re mine. You’re gonna be so fucking mine, You – you’re gonna be so fucking _hot_.”

You stop whimpering beneath him, for a moment. Go rigid. The fear that he’s made a misstep comes fading gradually into his mind, slogging through the haze of his desire which clouds everything, loosens his tongue.

Then, in the blink of an eye, you surge.

You come raging like the gale force winds of a hurricane, and you flips yoyr positions, pinning him down and straddling him as easily as he’d taken you into his arms. He could make this more of a fight than a fuck, if he so desired – but this is something else entirely, anyway, and Sam doesn’t seem to be able to summon up the power to fight you at all, dictate your positions. All he can do is watch from below as you spread yourself over him, limbs agile, almost spiderlike, creeping down his body and grasping his cock, running your tongue along the shaft with a low, triumphant hum. There’s greed, to the way you lick him, like you can’t get enough of his taste, of your slick all over him. You look like something he’s never seen before; something words alone can’t capture.

You’re a queen. An empress. A natural phenomenon. A god of a woman. You’re all those things and more, but most of all you’re a _siren_ , and he’s more than happy to jump overboard and break his fucking back on jagged rocks below whenever you call for him. Loving you is the sweetest agony and most agonizing bliss, and watching you run your tongue over his veined cock almost gives him a legitimate goddamn heart attack, stops his breathing for good.

“You want everyone to see me? Know I’m yours? Fine. But you wanna know something?” you pant, looming over him, victorious. “You’ll be mine, too. They’ll all know, when they look at me, that you’re _mine_. Every other person. That you did that to me. That I _let_ you.” You lower yourself over him, and he tries to raise his hand to your breast to reach it, mouthing like an infant, but you push him down, hold him almost by the throat. “That you belong to me too.”

This goes both ways, this belonging, that possession. This is a two-way street. You belong to him as he belongs to you and he’s never doubted that, not for a single second, and now you’re both going to _prove_ it. To the world.

Fuck the world. You’re going to prove it to each other.

When you sink down onto him, Sam could swear you both go cross-eyed from the sensation, feeling your cunt stretch – stretch like your stomach will stretch, until your skin pulls tight and taut and you can’t hide it anymore, can’t hide what you’ve done, what you’ve created together, that globe of flesh, an entire world contained inside you. The thoughts invade his mind almost subconsciously, floating up from some place deep inside him as you work over him, rolling yourself up and down, building your pace. Your breasts bounce with each movement, and he pictures them bigger, too, swollen and heavy with milk. Leaking. Bursting. Unable to be contained by your bras and tight blouses. You’ll grow out of them, too, all those hard angles softening, expanding. _Growing._ He doesn’t know how he’s going to be able to keep his goddamn hands _off_ of you.

He doesn’t know why this stirs him so. It’s fucked up, and he doesn’t care, because _fucked up_ is a societal convention you both have never abided by, a label you’ve never allowed to shame you. This is biology, the basest, most human instincts driving you, and he’s never loved you more, as he flips you back over and sinks into you again, his come swelling like magma in his balls, pent-up, pressurized.

He looks at you in the eyes, holds your gaze as he ruts hard and hot between your thighs, kissing a string of groans and growls into your mouth and listening to them mingle with your own until they become some sort of peculiar perfect harmony. He can feel you building, tensing, bending underneath the tide of pleasure until you feels like you just might break. This is a promise, what you’re doing. A commitment; stronger than any band of gold. These are you bodies, your flesh.

He places his hand on your stomach. Swears he can feel it beginning to enlarge beneath his palm, against all logic and sense, that seed planted inside your taking root. He thinks about holding you down, cradling that hard little swell, fucking into you, knowing that they’re together forever, inside you. No take backs. No walking away. This is it.

He’s barely aware you’re speaking at all until he feels you reaching down, grabbing at his hips, palming his ass. Your own hips are bucking wildly, and you seem almost to be trying to tug him closer, pull him deeper inside your, letting loose a litany of _oh God do it, come inside me, fuck, I wanna feel it, I wanna take it_ – or maybe it’s not even that. Maybe he’s hearing things. Maybe he’s losing his grip on reality, no longer sure what there is separating your bodies; no condom to dull the sensation of your cunt around him, all of you closing in around all of him. He’s so deep inside you he can almost feel your heart beating on his cock.

Imagines another tiny heart beating in tandem with yours.

It’s like a damn religious experience, having you bare. It feels like he’s coming out of his body, watching himself in another life, and before Sam knows it he’s coming in the literal sense, bursting inside your with a sound like a sob, pouring himself into you and feeling you take in every last drop, greedy, insatiable, your nails clawing at the clenching muscles of his glutes. The thought that maybe it’s happening even now, right this second, that he could be giving you his child right _now_ , only makes him come harder, until he sees stars. He wants to see that. Wants to _do_ that to you. Wants you on your hands and knees on this bed, belly hanging low, an elegant curve into your pelvis. Wants to lay you out and look at your, every single inch, naked and pregnant and resplendent, all because of him. Wants to do that to you as many times as you’ll fucking let him.

“Oh – yes, fuck yes, I, _oh_ -”

He may be only barely aware of what he’s doing, his mind bombarded with too much sensory data to process, but thankfully Sam still has enough presence of mind remaining to reach down into the space between your bodies, working your clit until you’re clenching around him, your cunt quivering, so deliciously open and unprotected and seeded with him. He wonders if you’re picturing it, too; what you’ll look like when he’s done with you. If it turns your on like it does him.

Once he’s come back to himself, Sam pulls away, rolling back onto his knees, taking in the sight of you, astounded. You let your legs stretch out to their full length when he does, reaching one hand down, playing idly with your cunt, and his breath locks in his throat when he sees his come dribbling out of you, milk-white, leaking down the crack of your ass, onto the sheets. You dips your fingers into it, eyes locked on his like you knows _precisely_ what the fuck you’re doing to him, and massages it up, over your clit, spreading it across your folds and giving a content little hum, clearly not about to waste a single drop. He considers cupping his hand over you, as if to keep it all inside, fill your with it – but he can’t remember how to move, not really, so he just gapes.

He wants to fuck you all over again. And he would, if it weren’t for goddamn refractory periods, so Sam settles for falling down at your side, instead, curling himself around you, hands going for your stomach almost instantaneously. It doesn’t feel like settling for anything, though, just lying there, holding you, breathing in the heavy stench of sex and sweat and something far more primal, like the very beginnings of life itself. Like the first tiny organism in that giant sea of life as it formed, grew larger, joined together, billions upon billions of years ago. Became something living. Something powerful. He pictures all that happening now, happening inside your, the smallest cells coalescing, combining, multiplying, a million heartbeats, a million fractured pieces of them.

He’s so amazed he can’t capture any of what he’s feeling in words. So he doesn’t try. He may talk too much most of the time but he’s good at being silent when it’s right to be silent, and this is right. This is _so_ indescribably right.

“You’ve never… _Wow_ ,” You manage to choke out. “You’ve… never fucked me like that, before.”

He presses a protective hand to your stomach, that flat, toned plane, nuzzling your neck. “Think I hit gold?”

You laugh. “I’m not pregnant yet – that’s not how it works.”

“Fuck, you got any idea how hot you’re gonna look? You’re gonna be so beautiful. Goddamn _perfect_ ,” he says, half-teasing, half-not. He nips at your neck, savoring the resulting squeal he pulls from your lungs, and after a moment he pulls back, just in time to see doubt flicker in your eyes.

“You think I will?”

“I know you will,” he urges, bewildered that you could ever think yourself undesirable to him, anything less than beyond beautiful. “I’m not gonna be able to keep my hands off you. My baby mama…”

“Oh, my God, Sam do _not_ call me that,” you protest, good-naturedly.

“What? You’re gonna be my lil baby mama. What’s wrong with me callin’ you that?”

“I swear, I’ll break up with you before this kid is even a _zygote_ if you don’t cut it out-” You try to roll over away from him, but he catches you easily, and you dissolve into a fit of near-hysterical laughter, until he has you pinned beneath him once more and you sober up. He reaches out, tucking a stand of sweaty hair behind your ear, marveling at you, at what you’ve let him do. At what you’ve decided you want to do _with_ him. He’s unworthy, undeserving, but you see something worthy in him, and he’ll never know how. He’ll never properly understand it.

All he can do is be grateful you do.

“I want this,” he says, suddenly, no laughter on his lips, just sincerity, “with you.”

This. A family. A new beginning, for both of you. You can do this – and it’s not going to be easy, he’s not deluded enough to think that. The same way loving each other is a choice, so this will be, too, and he’ll choose you like he always does, choose your child. It won’t be perfect. You’ll make your own completely unique mistakes. And that’s okay. If you both love each other, if you do this right, you can afford a few mistakes.

“I want this with you too,” you tell him, softly, smoothing a finger across his cheek, and it’s not an _I love you_ , not in those explicit words, at least, but to him it might as well be.


End file.
